Chapter 11

Haydn’s Concerto Number One in C-Major swept across Thorne’s brain, making the words in front of him sharper, somehow. Or perhaps it was merely his understanding of them. Who would have thought that becoming a duke meant so much sheep?

What are the sheep eating? Where are they shiteing? How does this affect the farmers’ access to water? What is the price at the Edinburgh market versus Glasgow? Which will ship overseas, and how much is a fair price for the wool?

Fook.

Thorne had secretaries and stewards and men of business who handled most of this shite, but his uncle had always said it was important for a duke to know his land. Know his sheep, apparently.

Frankly, Thorne was looking forward to escaping London for the Highlands, once this Blackrose business was handled.

It could be finished by next week.

Thorne realized he’d read the same paragraph three times without understanding it and dropped the paper to his desk with a sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then dragged his hand through his hair and dropped his head back against the chair.

Kit’s playing was soft, soothing background sounds as his mind whirled, and Thorne felt his fingertips tapping along on the arms of his chair. How had he functioned before her music?

How had he functioned without her?

Would she come to the Highlands with him?

If she stays yer valet, perhaps.

Three long days ago he’d learned she was a woman, and he had never expected the fierce surge of joy at the realization. That night, lying in bed, holding her, he’d realized why.

When he’d thought her a lad, even as he fell in love with her, Thorne had known there was no chance at an open future together. This intense need to have her in his life could have only worked with her continuing as his personal attendant. It would have to be a secret, the same way the old Duke of Peasgoode had lived with his long-time secretary.

But as a woman…she could be his.

It had taken a moment to realize Thorne meant marriage.

And why not?

He’d seen what his parents had, what his friends currently had. He’d always wanted that same love, the same joy, in his marriage. He’d fallen in love with Kit before he’d known marriage was a possibility, but now…? Perhaps.

But she wouldn’t be Kit if she wasn’t determined to do things her way.

All in all, he’d thought it best not to mention the marriage thing yet, what with the fact that he’d accidentally confessed his love and she’d donned her trousers again the next day and insisted on helping him dress.

Although she’d teased him about being unable to do the fiddly little buttons himself.

In the three days since, she’d continued to dress as a lad, although she’d left off binding her breasts and she wore her auburn curls down around her ears, as Thorne had asked.

Really, seeing Titsworth’s expression the first time the man had glimpsed Kit had made the whole thing worth it.

Thorne’s lips were curled into a smile, but he sighed again.

Forget marriage. Start with asking her to visit Stroken with ye.

But that was selfish, wasn’t it? Kit’s goal was to study her father, and as far as Thorne knew, she hadn’t had the opportunity. If he dragged her away from London, she’d never have the chance.

He stared at the ceiling.

After Blackrose is behind bars, ye can help her find her father. Help her spy on the man. That’s what ye’re good at, aye?

Aye.

That was a good plan. He’d wrap up this business with Blackrose, help her meet her father, then whisk her up to the Highlands for a month or four. Show her the beauty, the majesty, and fook her sideways in every room at Stroken.

A good plan. But first…

Aye. Blackrose.

Next week this could all be over, if Thorne was brave enough to grasp the opportunity. But he couldn’t stand the thought of Bull at risk.

But the idea was a good one…

Last night he’d managed to tear himself away from Kit to visit the Calderbank house for dinner, and it had been delightful. Of course, throughout it, he kept noticing things he wanted to share with Kit; Marcia’s discourse on the suffrage movement, Rupert’s excitement about the museum, Flick’s new kitten.

What would it be like, to stroll into a friend’s home—or a Society event—with the woman he loved on his arm?

After the meal, an excited Bull had pulled him aside.

“Blackrose is hosting a betrothal ball in a few days,” the lad had hissed at Thorne, his eyes dancing with excitement and his never-still fingers spinning a silver spoon across his knuckles. “He willnae ken everyone there, because Lady Emma will invite her friends. That’s our opportunity to get into his house and steal the information we need.”

Thorne’s immediate response had been to say no, but he was glad he’d clamped down on the instinct. As much as he hated to admit it, Bull was right. Although it would put them in the heart of danger, with the number of people at Bonkinbone for the betrothal ball, Thorne should be able to sneak in without trouble.

“I’ll go,” Bull had said, and Thorne had attempted to quash that plan. Unfortunately, when the lad pointed out that Blackrose would recognize any of the rest of them, Thorne couldn’t argue with that.

We need someone good with disguises.

And Thorne had known who he needed to ask.

But how to ask Kit for help without telling her everything?

Simple. Ye tell her everything.

And why not? He loved her, didn’t he? He was hoping for a future with her. She deserved to know of the horrors he’d committed, the way his friend’s wives had learned everything.

Perhaps she’ll be able to help.

She’d spent years in the theater, and clearly had worn her own disguise for months. But even if she couldn’t help hiding Thorne’s identity at the ball, he found himself yearning to tell her everything. He wanted her to know his past.

Even if she would condemn him for it.

Swallowing, Thorne lifted his head from the chair as Kit hit the last note, pulling her bow leisurely across the strings. Christ, she was beautiful with her eyes closed, swaying gently in place, a small smile on her lips.

As the note ended, her eyes slowly opened, and she was looking right at him. When their gazes collided, he smiled and she returned it.

This felt right.

“Thank ye,” he murmured.

Still smiling, Kit lowered her instrument. “I couldn’t tell if you were falling asleep.”

“Nay.” He shifted into a more comfortable position and rolled his shoulders. “Just…thinking.”

She hummed as she placed her violin carefully into its case. “Do you know you mutter to yourself when you’re frustrated? Something about sheep?”

“Aye.” He slapped the back of his hand against the pile of papers on his desk. “There’s so much. I kenned there would be, it’s just…” He sighed and slumped once more. “I’m no’ a leader. I never had to be a leader.”

“And now you do,” she agreed in a soft tone, crossing toward the desk. “Is there anything I can do to help?” Thorne brightened, and she scoffed. “Besides distracting you from your work.”

Since she’d said it so primly, Thorne could guess what she’d thought he’d meant, and chuckled softly. “Aye, if ye’re willing. Help me sort this pile. I confess I’m no’ the most organized.”

She snorted as she moved in front of the desk. “You’re talking to the person who has to pick up your clothing when you drop it every which way.”

It had been a fond sort of tone, but the reminder she was still acting as his valet made him a little uncomfortable.

What’s the alternative? She acts as yer mistress?

Wouldn’t that be easier?

She’d be exchanging sex for room and board then. Now she works for a living, draws a salary, and any fun ye have is on the side. Equal terms.

Aye, there was that.

“What are you looking for?”

He forced his attention back to the piles in front of him. “I think this pile is related to Stroken, and this is London. I mean, dinnae wager on it, because I’ve been muddling them. Can ye confirm each pile, at least, so I dinnae have to switch tracks with each new correspondence?”

She was already bent over the piles. “And within the London pile, I’m assuming you want personal correspondence separate from business separate from—See? This is a bill from your tailor. I’m putting it on top because you definitely need to pay him. I’m running out of shirts for you as it is.”

“What?” Thorne teased as he snatched the bill from her hand. “The whole point of being a duke is not having to pay yer tailor! He should be paying me to advertise for him!”

Kit snatched it right back. “Give me your pocketbook, I’m paying him now.”

He burst into laughter as he pulled the paper back. “I’ll have my solicitor send the man what he’s owed.”

“And a little more?” she asked suspiciously.

He was still chuckling when he wrote out the note. “My wee American, so concerned for others. I was only teasing you.”

Kit had bent over the piles again, her hands flashing through the sorting process. And he had to admit, it was handy to have someone to keep him in check. “Do these next,” she commanded, without looking up.

He wasn’t entirely surprised to see they were more bills from tradesmen. His solicitor should be handling these, shouldn’t he? Thorne added them to the letter, including a note for a bonus, and instructed the solicitor to handle these bills from now on.

“Dio Benedetto, Thorne, this is a mess,” she muttered, still sorting carefully. “Don’t you have someone to handle this for you?”

“I have two secretaries who intercept most of the estate business for me.” He reached for another bundle sent from Stroken. “These are the things they feel I should know. Although,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s hard to imagine why it’s vital I ken this much about sheep.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” she agreed, slowly straightening, yesterday’s copy of The Daily Constitutional in her hand.

“Hm?”

Pale eyes flicked over the top of the paper. “If you had someone you trust to read half of this, someone you trusted to know what was important for you to know, they could just tell you the important bits. A summary, not hours at a desk.”

Thorne’s eyes widened. “Like a partner.” It sounded like heaven to him.

He could imagine sitting here in his study, the door locked to keep out the outside world, with a partner like that. Someone he trusted—not just with his business, but with his secrets—to know what was important. Someone with whom he could discuss the important bits, and who understood.

No’ a someone, ye dobber. Kit.

Aye, Kit. He already thought of her as an equal, didn’t he?

Ye’re going to have to trust her, ye ken. Trust her with yer secrets.

When he looked up, she was frowning down at the newspaper. “Kit, I…what is it?”

She hadn’t looked up. “The Earl of Bonkinbone is marrying? It says here his betrothal ball is later this week.”

“Aye, and if Bull has his way, I’m going to have to attend.”

She could help. She’s good at disguises.

Perhaps there was something in his tone, because Kit lowered the paper slowly, frowning at him. “What’s wrong?

Thorne raised his hand instinctively to wave away her question, but paused. “How much time do ye have?”

If Titsworth ever heard the noise she made as she rolled her eyes, he’d likely fire her on the spot. But that’s why Thorne liked her in his life; she didn’t worry about propriety.

Besides, she makes all sorts of more interesting noises in yer bed.

Aye, that too.

“You poor, poor duke,” she was saying now, moving around the desk. She tossed the newspaper down so it landed with the announcement of Blackrose’s betrothal staring up at him. “Servants at your beck and call, all the best food, all the best fashions…”

Since her tone was teasing, Thorne didn’t scowl as she stepped up behind him. Instead, when she placed her hands on his shoulders he leaned into her touch, remembering the magic her hands had wrought more than once.

When Kit’s fingers kneaded the tight muscles there, and he sighed happily, she clucked her tongue.

“And all the world’s troubles on your shoulders, hm?” She didn’t let him answer. “You can’t keep doing this without help. And whatever you’ve been talking about with Bull and your cousin has made it even worse, hasn’t it? You’re too good natured to be this stressed.”

You are not in this alone. Flick had said that. She’d wanted him to turn to Griffin and Demon and Rourke, but they weren’t here, not yet.

His mind made up, Thorne leaned into to her touch. “Let me tell ye a story, Kit.” Her thumbs moved toward his spine, and he swallowed down a groan. “Once upon a time, there was a very bad man.”

She hummed, clearly not really paying attention. “How bad?”

“He was a spy. He worked for Her Majesty’s government, and recruited intelligent, well-placed men to work for him, putting themselves in danger and doing difficult things, to advance Britain’s policies at home and abroad.”

“Believable so far.” Her knuckles dug into the muscles on either side of his neck.

“This man, however—Christ that feels good, Kit!” he groaned.

She made a little noise like a chuckle and dug deeper as she prompted, “This man, however?”

What had he been saying? Och, aye. “He wasn’t working for the good of Britain, but rather himself. His connection to the Crown was a falsehood.”

Kit paused, her fingers digging into his skin. “And the young men working for him?”

“All fools.” Thorne blew out a breath and twitched his chin in as much of a shake as he could manage without throwing her off. “Nay, no’ fools, just fooled. When they learned of his treachery, some tried to fight him, some hid.”

Slowly, Kit’s fingers began to move again, kneading along the tops of his shoulders, then down toward the backs of his arms. “And what did this bad man do?”

It was the way she asked the question—thoughtful and slow—that told Thorne she was dreading the answer. He had to be honest.

“He killed them. Or tried.” When she hissed out a breath, he felt a little jolt of awareness. Not physically—although he was enjoying the hell out of her touch—but something which wrapped around his heart, telling him you are not alone. Kit understood.

“Some of them escaped, and some gathered evidence against him,” Thorne explained. “It was the least they—we could do, considering the horrors…the horrors we’d committed at his command.”

He wasn’t proud of the way his voice cracked, but he was glad he’d had the courage to say the words, admit the deeds.

Kit’s fingers had stilled, digging into his muscles, and now she slowly relaxed. “I think I understand.”

Perhaps she did. Thorne took a deep breath. “There was a confrontation with two of his agents, and this bad man believed the evidence was destroyed. He fled, thinking legally—if no’ physically—he was safe.”

“What happened to the evidence?”

“It was hidden in a safe place, because he was far from beaten. He settled in Canada, but we—there’s a whole group of us who used to work for him—did our best to keep tabs on him.”

Kit didn’t speak for a long while, but the silence was charged, as if she was trying to decide what to say. Finally, her fingers dragged up the back of his neck. “This is Blackrose, isn’t it?” she asked softly.

Surprised, Thorne half-turned in his chair, before remembering the conversation she’d overheard between him and Fawkes and Bull. She was a bright one, indeed.

“That’s his code name, at least,” Thorne agreed. “His older brother was titled, in league with Blackrose. While he was in Canada, his brother placed coded messages in the newspaper—this paper, actually—alerting our villain to changes in the investigation and opportunities for gain.” He tugged yesterday’s copy of the newspaper closer, so he could gesture with it while he leaned his head back into her touch. “The publisher and lead editor is a friend.”

Kit snorted softly. “You’re friends with everyone, aren’t you?”

“Aye, well…perhaps. But in this case, she’s the Duchess of Effinghell, and her now-deceased stepbrother was one of the agents who stayed loyal to Blackrose, intent on lining the man’s pocket in exchange for handouts.”

“So the duchess published these messages?”

“They were in code—” He broke off with a groan as she scratched her nails across his scalp.

Kit hummed thoughtfully. “Which you cracked. You told Bull that Fawkes had the plan to use the code to trap Blackrose.”

“Fawkes is married to Danielle, who is a genius.” Thorne’s eyes were closed so he could better focus on the magic her fingers were weaving. “She’s also Blackrose’s niece. She broke the code and our plan is to place a notice in the paper again, using it, the way her father did.”

“Won’t her father notice?”

Thorne tried to marshal his thoughts, but the pleasure her fingers were sending across his skin was distracting as hell. “Blackrose…decided he could come back to Britain safely if he had a title. Using his connections, his hold over men with certain skills, he poisoned his brother to gain the title.”

“The Duke of Death,” murmured Kit, clearly remembering meeting Fawkes. “Blackrose set that all up, even when his brother was helping him?”

“Aye, well, arseholes are going to arsehole, eh?” Sighing, Thorne shifted forward so her fingers could move around to his temples. “So now he holds the power and the right connections.”

Kit’s touch turned lighter, tracing the outer edge of each ear. “But the evidence against Blackrose? A title shouldn’t matter in the face of that.”

A shudder went down Thorne’s spine and settled in his cock. Who knew that ears were erogenous zones? “Spoken like an American, love. We cannae accuse him, no’ yet. We need a trap. Hence the code.”

Kit, bless her, picked up on the implications immediately. “So if you use the code in the same way Blackrose’s brother did, then…then he’ll think his brother confided in someone.”

“Exactly,” Thorne hummed. “We use the code to provide information only his brother could have known, and arrange to set up a meeting.”

“Why not just ask his daughter? Danielle?” Her fingertips were now stroking the side of his neck.

“Danielle is married to Blackrose’s ex-poisoner. Her sister Georgia is married to another one of Blackrose’s ex-spies—coincidentally, the Duke of Lickwick, although the bastard rarely shows his face in London.”

“So if you use information Blackrose believes might have come from either of his nieces, he’ll also suspect them, and your group, of being involved?”

“I kenned ye were brilliant,” Thorne crowed, snagging her hand and pulling her around the chair. “So we need access to Blackrose’s estate, where his brother’s information would be held.”

At his urging, Kit settled between his legs. When he wrapped his arms around her middle, he could bury his face between her tits as she ran her fingers through his hair.

It was a favorite position of his—made him feel surrounded by her—but surreal as hell, what with the waistcoat and necktie. “I dinnae suppose we could get rid of these?” he murmured, his words muffled by the wool.

She chuckled, but to his surprise, began the complex twisting to shrug out of her jacket while he held her in this position. “Have you come up with a way to get into Blackrose’s estate?”

When Kit loosened her necktie, Thorne raised his head. “I think…we might…I think our plan—are ye doing what I hope ye’re doing?”

She paused to grin down at him. “Thorne, you are overworked and far too stressed. You have taken on too much.”

The golden skin at the base of her throat was exposed to his vision now, Thorne’s mouth watering at the sight. “I have to,” he said vaguely, distracted as all hell.

But she clamped her hands on his jaw, tipping his head back until he met her eyes. “Thorne. You do not have to do this alone.”

He stared, not understanding.

She gave him the smallest of shakes. “You’re not alone. You have your friends. You have me.”

“Do I?” he whispered.

It was an unspoken dare. A dare to her to tell him that she was doing this because she was his valet. Because it was her duty to care about her employer’s well-being.

But instead, her lips parted, and Kit whispered, “Always.”

When she bent to kiss him, Thorne was already surging upward to meet her.